


nothing is gained by not gathering roses

by marit



Series: a series of cats [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (From my own fic), Cats, M/M, Missing Scene, Unintentional adoption of animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 04:49:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4334486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marit/pseuds/marit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He takes a moment to parse all of the parts, and then for some reason says, “Sure. I’ll take your cat.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing is gained by not gathering roses

**Author's Note:**

> This is a small, not-super-nuanced missing scene from my other cat fic that I wasn't even going to post but then decided... why not. I couldn't fit it in that one from Steve's POV, but it illustrates some of the things Steve's misinterpreting in terms of his current relationship with Bucky. You don't have to have read the other fic first, but it helps considerably. 
> 
> I have other bits and bobs about Steve and Bucky and some cat hanging around, so if/when I finish them, expect more. Please let me know if you're interested, or just have things you want to see! I will attempt to churn them out.
> 
> Title is from [this poem by Robert Frost](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/asking-for-roses/). I named the cat before realizing the ready-made titles I have at my disposal now because of the plethora of rose-based poetry.

The Stephenson girl is sitting outside her building holding a leash, and at the end of that leash is a cat.

It makes Bucky pause, having never noticed a cat on a leash before. Said cat looks content enough, at least, curiously inspecting the ground where the building meets sidewalk, and apparently not at all bothered to be on a leash. 

The cat’s owner watches Bucky watching the cat, and then asks, a plaintive note to her voice, “Can _you_ take my cat?” 

“What?” he asks, startled. His voice comes out a bit gravelly on that single word and he tries to remember the last time he actually said something out loud. Too long ago, really. 

“Her name’s Rose. Turn’s out Luke is allergic so we can’t keep her but she’s really nice and fun and I can give you all of the stuff we bought for her, she won’t be any trouble at all, I can’t find anyone to take her but I don’t want to leave her at the shelter because Eun Su told me that they’re really mean there and Rose’s really nice and I don’t want her to be there, and I’ve seen you around, you know, you seem nice too, you live in the building next door,” she says, all in one long rushing stream of words that is overwhelming, and probably said so quickly so Bucky doesn’t have a chance to interrupt. He wouldn’t, anyway, but she doesn’t know that. 

He takes a moment to parse all of the parts, and then for some reason says, “Sure. I’ll take your cat.” 

Later, he will wonder what possessed him to say yes. He’s not sure if that it’s that her last name is Stephenson and that’s close to Steve and anything close to Steve has to turn out well, or it’s a sign or something. Maybe it’s that he doesn’t want this cat left at a shelter either, that the idea of it confused by that turn of events is startlingly off-putting. It could be that he remembers another cat, long ago, that he also took in, albeit with less intention. Or maybe it’s just that he wants this cat, wants it to be around when the apartment is quiet and when it’s not, wants it to serve as a distraction and a comfort both for himself and for Steve.

Regardless, the girl (Francesca, he remembers) lights up and Bucky feels a stupid small glow of pride for being able to make that happen. “Oh, thank you, thank you so much, just wait here, I will get everything for you and carry it and everything,” she says, and then shoves the leash in Bucky’s hand and bolts into her apartment building before he has a chance to change his mind. Bucky’s left holding a harnessed cat in the middle of the sidewalk, unsure about how to proceed from here. The cat doesn’t care. She’s still inspecting the sidewalk, ignorant to the fact that she changed owners in the space of a moment. 

The girl returns ten minutes later followed by her older brother, the two of them carrying an emptied litter box and a box full of food and toys, while Bucky is nervously watching the cat roll around on the sidewalk. He’s scared she’ll roll into the gutter, but knows that’s stupid anyway, that no harm would come to her just from rolling off the edge of the sidewalk, so their arrival is a bit of a relief. 

The cat stands with a chirping meow, trotting over to the two kids to rub against Luke’s legs. He gently pushes her away with his foot as Francesca says, a false brightness to her tone that indicates that maybe it has sunk in that her cat is leaving, “Come on, Rosie.”

Bucky’s forced to lead them into his building. The cat follows along easily enough, only getting distracted a few times by the new smells. She doesn’t like the elevator, pushing herself between Francesca’s legs and the wall, and Bucky thinks that at least her and Steve will have that in common, a dislike of elevators. 

He stops outside the door to the apartment, says, more gruffly than he means to, “Leave the things here. I’ll bring it in.” He doesn’t want them in there. That’s just his and Steve’s space. He hates other people being there. 

“All right,” Luke says, setting down the box full of stuff and then standing stiffly to wait for his sister. Francesca sets the litter box carefully down beside the things, aligning the edges as carefully as possible. 

“You’ll walk her sometimes, maybe? And I can see her outside?” she asks. Her gaze is directed at the wall, avoiding everyone’s eyes as if it’s a weakness to want to see her old cat still. 

Bucky nods, says, “Yeah,” in case she doesn’t notice the nod out of her peripheral vision. He’s not sure he really likes being with the cat on a leash, but maybe Steve will take her out occasionally. He can get away with that. It’d probably go viral or something ridiculous, Captain America walking a cat. 

They eventually leave, Luke practically dragging Francesca away. Bucky would feel guilty except that he doesn’t, except that this is probably the better option and she had to get rid of the cat anyway. 

He takes the cat inside, then goes back for her things, and then goes back for her again when she runs out into the hall through the barely open door. He puts some litter in the box and puts it in the unused second closet in his bedroom, leaving the sliding door open for her to figure out where it is. (He’s not sure why the room has more than one closet anyway, except that maybe it was supposed to be used as an office-slash-storage-space.) He gives her food and water and carefully places a toy in front of her, which she ignores, and then just watches her explore for awhile. 

He’s not sure what to do next. The cat meows loudly just once when in the bathroom and offers no further guidance. Eventually she seems satisfied and comes back to where he’s standing stock-still in the living room, twirls around his legs and, when he doesn’t respond, jumps onto the windowsill. 

She stays there long enough that Bucky does move eventually, sits hesitantly down on the couch and turns the TV on quietly, just for the noise. Eventually he starts to relax, although his attention is still solely on the cat and not at all on the movie, whatever it is. She eventually jumps down from the window and meows in a way that seems like a question. Bucky’s not sure if he should answer or not. He isn’t sure if talking to cats is a thing you should do. He thinks maybe this used to be easier, interacting with animals, just like interacting with people used to come so naturally. She doesn’t seem to mind his unresponsiveness at all though. She rubs against his foot but doesn’t try to jump onto his lap, which he’s thankful for, and just sits on the floor until her eyes start to drift shut a bit, after which she lowers by curling her legs under her body. 

It doesn’t really occur to him that he probably should have asked Steve about the cat before taking her in until he hears the sound of Steve at the door, and then it hits him like a wave of panic. It’s not even that he thinks Steve will make him get rid of her, because he knows enough by now to know that he won’t, that Bucky could probably adopt a giraffe and Steve would just rent out the apartment above them so they could make the ceilings higher. It’s more than he doesn’t want Steve to be annoyed or uncomfortable or whatever else. Bucky doesn’t have his own indulgences not just because they rarely occur to him (even though that’s true) but also because he never wants anything he does to conflict with the small number of things Steve cares about. He doesn’t want to disturb the peace. A cat could quite possibly disturb the peace. 

And like every other time he panics at all, his mind shuts down, so that when Steve asks him about the cat he barely responds, just shrugs because that’s usually enough to answer any question even if it’s rude and untrue. He knows that Steve probably looks hurt, like he always does when Bucky doesn’t answer him properly, no matter how many times it happens. Bucky lives in fear of the moment that changes to anger instead of hurt, for all that he would welcome it too, because it means maybe Steve would stop putting up with all of his shit and because it could mean Bucky would stop hurting Steve daily. 

He doesn’t notice Steve leave until he notices he’s gone. With effort, he pushes the panic down and forces himself to uncurl to join him in the kitchen because it feels necessary.

He doesn’t apologize because he doesn’t ever know how to explain his own thoughts. He simply pulls the chopping board away from Steve and carefully takes the knife out of his hand to do it himself, because Steve always cuts everything unevenly and it’s something he can do to help, however small. He remembers he used to do most of the cooking before, when Steve’s mom wasn’t around, when Steve hated it and would put off eating just to avoid boiling water. He would get there, Steve would complain, and Bucky would always give in because he always does, when it comes to Steve. 

He has to work himself up to it, to offering some sort of explanation. “The Stephenson girl asked me to take the cat,” he says finally. “Said she couldn’t keep her anymore.”

And then he finds himself with nothing to do, having put the vegetables in the pot without even realizing he had done so, so he just stands, awkward, growing more anxious every moment Steve doesn’t answer, until he blurts out, “Her name’s Rose. I wanted her. I--it gets quiet, when you’re gone.”

It’s not even entirely true, not the half of it, but at least it’s something. He avoids Steve’s gaze so that he doesn’t have to read whatever emotion is there. He feels stupid and stumbling, too warm and like he wants to leave. He stays, though, because this is important, talking to Steve is important, the cat is important. 

Steve doesn’t respond right away, and Bucky hates it because he remembers when they didn’t have this problem, when they knew exactly what to say or do around the other. He remembers the joking and the casual touches and the ease. He wants so badly to reenact that, to offer words that he can’t string together properly now and to feel some sort of closeness again. 

Steve eventually says, “All right. That’s… good. Does it need food or something?” He glances at the soup, as if he’s thinking of offering some to the cat. It almost makes Bucky smile, but it’s more of a flickering internal smile than anything Steve would ever notice. 

“No,” he says, and then thinks he should offer more information but then his pause drags too long so he doesn’t. 

“All right,” Steve says again, obviously having sensed that Bucky had wanted to say more but then not commenting on it. 

It’s awkward, so Bucky gives in and leaves, settling down on the chair he had recently vacated until Steve brings him a bowl of the finished soup, having spent the intervening time apparently just standing in the kitchen. It’s a bit of a relief, in a silly, slightly selfish way, that Steve’s occasionally just as awkward about this all.

That night the cat scratches at Bucky’s door until he opens it for her, and then trots in, meowing around a toy in her mouth. She drops it by Bucky so he hesitantly picks it up and throws it up into the air for her. She brings it back, sort of, near enough for him to easily lean over to pick it up again. She chases it around, batting it into the air herself and then swatting at it. Bucky watches, and then picks up the toy and leans far enough out the doorway to throw it down the hallway and watch her skitter across the hardwood to slide to a halt against Steve’s feet. 

Their eyes meet and something close to a smile passes across Steve’s face. Bucky ducks back into his bedroom before he lets his own matching not-quite-smile appear. Maybe the cat being there will be okay after all.


End file.
